Men Are From Mars...
by Bee
Summary: A battle of the sexes, Mulder & Scully style...


TITLE: Men are from Mars...

By Bee

SPOILERS: none that I can see...

RATING: umm.....PG? I dunno.

KEYWORDS: attempted humour.

SUMMARY: A battle of the sexes...Mulder and Scully style. Mulder/Scully POV

NOTES: Sorry for the shit title...it was all I could come up with...if anyone has any suggestions?

Oh yeah, and I started this some time in December...finished it today...go figure.

* * *

Just give up and admit you're an asshole - Ani DiFranco, As Is.

* * *

It's not that I don't want a man.

"Get your feet OFF my desk."

It's just that I don't know if it's worth the hassle.

"Technically, it's not my *feet* on your desk, it's my shoe-"

"Get them OFF MY DESK."

Plus, most of the time I don't actually *like* them.

"NOW."

For once he does as he's told, sitting in an almost normal position on his chair. The chair that - for some reason - is situated at my brand new desk.

I'm very protective over my desk. I've only had it a week, and after waiting 7 years for one, I'm not going to let him get dirty footprints all over it.

"Thank you."

Okay, so maybe I'm being a little harsh. The entire male population of the species can't be as bad as this, or all women would be celibate.

I glare at him once more to see him pout at me, and despite myself, my stomach does a flip flop.

Alright...we wouldn't all be celibate, but we'd all be as insane as I must be. And I must be pretty damn insane to put up with this for as long as I have.

Even if he *did* get me a desk.

"Don't you have work to do?"

He shrugs, wheeling the chair back over to *his* desk. The journey takes all of half a second, because, as he once pointed out, there isn't really room in this office for two desks. But who the fuck cares?

He flashes me a sweet smile, obviously going for the 'I'm so loveable, how can you possibly be mad at me?' expression that men so enjoy annoying us with.

"How can I do work when you're not here to inspire me?"

Ugh, get me a bucket, I think I'm gonna puke.

Women. I really don't understand them sometimes. 

I mean, I go to all that trouble to get her a brand, spanking new desk, (spanking...) and she goes and screeches at me the second she steps through the door?

What's that about?

Okay, so I had my feet on her desk. That's a big deal all of a sudden? She wouldn't even *have* a desk if it weren't for me.

The things us guys put up with to get laid...I mean they have their mood swings, their constant changes of hairstyle which we're supposed to instantly notice because they get upset if it takes us more than 3 seconds, which I personally think is unfair. They ask *impossible* questions like "Do you think I've put on weight?" (yep, you're starting to look like Godzilla) or "does my butt look big in this?" (no bigger than usual) or "why are you staring at me?" (because I want sex, why else?) I mean, do they *expect* honest answers? Or are we supposed to lie and say, no, I actually think you've *lost* weight, What butt? And I'm staring at you because you're blocking my view of my Pamela Anderson swimsuit calendar?

Right.

Women.

And then there's the PMS.

What the fuck is that about?

For a few days every month they can be as bitchy as they want, can cry at the slightest provocation and have an excuse to hug at will (not that us mere mortals complain of course...). And they complain about it?

Huh?

But if we dare utter the words "PMS" we get screeched at. Loudly. In fact, they do that screechy thing where they kind of jump up and down and their breasts jiggle. Apparently.

If she wasn't such a neat freak, she wouldn't mind me having my feet up. So really, it's her fault for being so tidy.

And I have a guilt complex?

She shoots me a disgusted look - like she's about to bring up her breakfast - and speaks. "Give me a break."

I don't think she was convinced by my heartfelt excuse. Maybe telling her that she inspired me was too much of a cliché.

So now what do I say? You're in a fucking evil mood this morning?

"And good morning to you, too." Right. Standard greeting. Good one.

"If you'd had the morning I have, your mood would suck too."

Suck? So she's suddenly 16 again?

It's at this point I notice the stray hair. This in itself is strange...I think...but the weirdest thing? It's kind of...black.

"Scully, why is your hair black?"

Judging by the absolutely *poisonous* look I get, I think that was the wrong thing to say.

She makes a disgusted sound and leaves the room, presumably heading for a mirror somewhere.

Yup, I said the wrong thing.

As usual.

It's hard being a man.

Men.

I swear to god, he wouldn't know tact if it came over and kicked him in the balls.

Yes, my hair is black. Yes, my hairdryer viciously attacked me. And yes, once again, my hair is black.

But does he *have* to mention it?

Does he *really* have to make things worse by asking *why* my hair is black?

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have stormed out. But I need to assess the damage. I haven't seen my reflection since I left the house, and anything could have happened since then. It could have somehow spread out and polluted the rest of my head.

Now as a scientist, I know I'm talking rubbish. But as a woman concerned about her reflection, anything is possible.

As men go, Mulder's kinda special. I mean, yes, he's a slob. Yes, he can be a sexist pig, and yes, he's occasionally an insensitive clod.

But he can also be understanding, funny and perceptive. And let's not forget the fact that he's good looking and great in bed.

Did I not mention that we're together?

A smile spreads across my face as I stare into the tiny mirror in the tiny basement bathroom. Well, that's until I remember why I'm in here in the first place.

The bad hair day from hell.

Screw my man troubles, my hair problems are much, much worse.

There's this little black bit that's kind of sticking out and generally looking shit.

When a day starts off like this, things can only get worse.

Scientific fact.

Honest.

So I was complaining about men, wasn't I? Don't get me wrong, I love men, but sometimes you just want to hurt them, you know?

Especially when the man in question is tall, dark and handsome with about a million neurosis.

I eventually decide to leave the hair and go back into the office before he gets worried. Which he will, he'll become convinced that I'm being kidnapped or I've collapsed, or I'm having sex with Skinner.

I slip back in, pretending not to see the strange look he gives me.

"Nice of you to come back."

What was I saying about sensitivity?

I grunt, half-heartedly fighting him off as he pulls me onto his lap.

The chairs aren't strong enough for this.

I'm about to protest, until he starts planting kisses on my neck....the chairs might not be strong enough, but that brand new desk might be...

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my brain's reminding me that we had an agreement...but - luckily - my brain is usually pretty easy to ignore.

Unfortunately, that particular skill doesn't seem to be present in the woman who's currently sucking my face...I give it 5 seconds...

5...

4...

3...

2...

"Mulder, we can't."

Aha. I knew it.

I kind of grunt in annoyance, praying that she won't start glaring again.

"We agreed, Mulder. We keep it out of the office."

Oh yeah, like I can resist this one, "well...there's a supply cupboard down the hall..."

Damn. The inherited Mulder family wit doesn't seem to be taking effect for some reason...

She climbs off my lap - mental note, if someone comes into the office, wheel the chair over to the desk, and quickly - and struts across the room, not seeing the face I make at her.

"Y'know, you should really lighten up a bit," I don't actually *know* if I'm serious or not...

"Oh, excuse me for trying to keep my job!"

Oh great, now she's pissed again. Her eyes are flashing and everything...I swear she could breathe fire if she really put her mind into it.

I fight the temptation to reply with 'well excuse me for wanting a shag.' I think that if I *did* say that, I wouldn't be capable of doing anything of the sort for quite some time...

I decide to go with the sensible option: admit defeat.

I throw a tortured sigh in for effect, "Scully, I'm sorry. I just...let's just say I don't have much self-discipline where you're concerned."

Aha, an apology *and* a compliment. I am the man.

She smiles slightly, "which is why at least one of us has to stay...focused."

I look at my watch - still only 9:30. Jesus...I'm supposed to make it through to 6pm? Sometimes I hate being a man.

Well, at least there's one disaster averted...we seem to still be on speaking terms, thanks to my incredibly smooth recovery back there.

I'm sticking to my theory that men are pathetic. I mean, look at him. He's sitting there, oozing with smarminess, all because he thinks I fell for his sad little line.

Please.

Ah, at least he apologised. Even if he didn't mean it. Normally I wouldn't let him get away with being such a...a man, but I'm trying to keep the peace. Contrary to popular belief, it isn't just men who enjoy sex, and I would like to 'get some' tonight - to use a Mulderesque phrase.

I smooth down my hair carefully, trying not to aggravate the charred part in case it snaps - that would be the last straw - and glance over at Mulder, still looking much too pleased with himself.

Men.

Can't live with em...well, let's just leave it at that.

* * *

And now the war is over, I've lost the urge to break your neck - Space & Cerys, The Ballad of Tom Jones

* * *

I know, I know. Not very good, not funny, and not in character.

Do I look like I care?

Okay, so I care. Send me feedback! [Beeslayer@cableinet.co.uk][1]

   [1]: mailto:Beeslayer@cableinet.co.uk



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